


Nothing's True, Everything's Permitted

by kateyboosh



Category: Performance (1970), The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: As the Terrantalen Tumblr tag says, Because Noel makes everything hot, Blowjobs, Boys Kissing, Come worship at the shrine, Frottage, Gratuitous description of pale smooth twinky boys kissing, I've got all things that are good, It's a dream... but is it really a dream?, Jaggerism is a legitimate religion, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, so does mick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: "He’s wound so tight, the anticipation making his body shake, Mick-fucking-Jagger right there in the same room as him, gestures languid, body lithe, hair perfect,hand on his zipper.The pillowy press of lips to his. A catch of breath in his throat."Our favorite boy with one of his favorite boys. 2500 words of pure hedonism and self-indulgence.
Relationships: Noel Fielding/Mick Jagger
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Nothing's True, Everything's Permitted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starsonthebrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsonthebrow/gifts).



> “I’m obsessed with Mick Jagger and glam rock.” - Noel, August 1999
> 
> “If we could get Jagger then my work would be complete, I could retire.” - Noel, February 2008
> 
> “[Jagger] winked at me once and I stared at him like a child stares at God. It was like there was a unicorn in the room. I couldn’t stop looking at him.” - Noel, July 2008
> 
> “I love Mick Jagger and he actually winked at me once, so I can die happy.” - Noel, April 2015

Noel fidgets on the sofa, wiggling his shoulders to get comfortable against the worn cushions. He tucks his feet up underneath him and lets his head fall against the rest, the bits of hair at the back haloing up against the fabric. The light from the telly flickers steadily against his face.

Mick winks cheekily up at him from the screen, surrounded by saturated colors and soft, hazy light, candles and scarves thrown over lamps. He twists a finger through his hair as he watches Turner pace around a tiny kitchen, through his bedroom, through the black and white tiled bath. He blinks and silently mouths snatches of the dialogue to himself, the tip of his thumb creeping between his lips as he watches, rapt.

He must have seen the film a hundred, two hundred, three hundred times in his life, getting ready to go out, doing his makeup and his hair as Mick swayed and smirked and seduced. It’s been ages since he’s seen it last.

He doesn’t mean to close his eyes.

_His eyes are closed._

He smells incense and perfume, thick and hazy; heady, hanging around his shoulders like a velvet cloud. He feels hands on him, body heat, fingers brushing at the V of skin at his chest as his collar is adjusted.

Noel opens his eyes. He sees himself reflected in a full length mirror. He’s wearing clothes he doesn’t own but badly wants to, soft black leather trousers fitted to his thighs and a white flowing shirt, thick with embroidery at the open chest. His feet are bare on the Persian rug beneath him, batiked fabric hanging on the scarlet walls to his sides.

Someone is behind him, draping necklaces around his throat, carved beads, antique bones, jade and feathers and sculpted silver cool against his pulse. The studded leather cuff at their wrist presses to his bare chest for a moment and then they’re gone, brushing a hand over the small of his back as they dart behind a rack thick with clothing.

When he parts the fabric, lace under his fingertips, Mick’s face is smirking up at him.

Mick eyes him up, his gaze as firm as a hand skating between Noel’s leather-clad legs and down his bare stomach. He lingers on Noel’s lips, eyes cutting up to his, catlike, before he turns and walks into the next room. He trails a hand behind him, open, looking over his shoulder with the same smirked grin on his face. The white linen he’s wearing slips off his shoulders and pools in the corridor as he closes the partition.

Noel would swear on anything that before it shut, when he brought his eyes up from Mick’s bare hip, Mick winked at him.

He knows it’s not Jagger being coy. He knows he’s supposed to follow him.

The corners of the room are dim, the curtains pulled, light snaking in murky and opaque through the patterns in the fabric. Dark carved wood ornaments the furniture and walls. He brushes his fingers along the tips of the white keys on the organ and walks further in, turning to look at the desk.

A sound, a snap. Two tube lights buzz and fluoresce in the far reaches of the room. He sees movement from the corner of his eye, a figure ducking behind a screen.

Noel freezes. 

He knows how he’ll see him. He just has to look up.

Mick’s bare body is reflected in the mirror that stretches across the ceiling, eyes glittering in the dim light.

Is he Mick, or Turner?

Is he Noel, or Chas?

It doesn’t matter when Jagger steps from behind the screen.

When he nears, finger between the plush of his lips, the room smells of honey. His wet finger parts Noel’s lips, and he sucks, inclining his head when Mick withdraws, chasing his hand.

He’s wound so tight, the anticipation making his body shake, Mick-fucking-Jagger right there in the same room as him, gestures languid, body lithe, hair perfect, _hand on his zipper_.

The pillowy press of lips to his. A catch of breath in his throat.

_His eyes are closed._

His pale, smooth body is entwined with Mick’s pale, smooth body, reflected in the mirror on the ceiling. He catches flashes of them as they roll on the thick, plush carpet beneath them. He’s not sure who’s who, thin, sculpted limbs and raven locks twisting, calves tensing, soaked with pleasure, the exquisite, dizzying slide of Mick’s cock against his.

Noel looks down at them, wrapped in Mick’s fist as he thrusts against him. A secret thrill runs through him when he sees he’s bigger. It’s him on the bottom, then, the carpet rubbing against his back, Mick’s body on top, Noel’s hands pressed into the taut muscle of his arse, urging him on. Mick’s moans end with giggles; noises that he breathes out low from deep in his throat linger and turn into dark laughter that floods Noel’s chest and sends spikes of arousal through his spine to his cock.

When Mick grips them tighter, speeds his fist, runs his thumb over their heads, the back of Noel’s hand thuds against the floor, muffled by the carpet. “Oh, Christ,” he breathes. When he opens his eyes, Jagger is smirking at him, a focused look of mischief and delight concentrated in his eyes, his grin pointed and full of lust. If he’s Turner, he hasn’t lost his demon; it’s dancing in his eyes.

Noel squeezes his eyes shut with the intensity of it, hearing Mick’s breathy little laughed noises. It brings him to the edge so quickly he feels his cheeks flush, sharp “ah”s falling from his lips as he comes watching their reflection, the shocked blue of his eyes doelike in the mirror above him.

He bucks his hips when he feels Mick start to come, adding to the wet mess between them, chasing every last bit of friction and stimulation until the slide of the undersides of their cocks is painful. “Unhhhhh,” he whimpers, batting at Mick’s shoulder, his limbs so heavy but the motion so weak. Mick just grins, leers at him, his lined eyes sparkling, his tongue hinting out from between his lips, and thrusts forward so hard Noel’s nails scrape through the carpet.

His vision goes black. From far away, he feels Mick climbing off of him, his wet hand wrapping around Noel’s wrist, tugging.

His voice is faint, fussy. It drifts down Noel’s ears.

“That carpet’s two hundred years old.”

_His eyes are closed._

He breathes. Cigarette smoke and rosewater, almond and milk and honey.

When he opens them, coming back into his body, he’s warm and floating and wet. He’s in the bath with Mick, condensation slick on the tiles surrounding them.

Mick’s sprawled and lazing, lordly in the corner. Framed by glittering white, he looks completely sated but hungry at the same time, appraising Noel with a glint in his eye.

Mick’s tongue licks out at his top lip as he stretches his dripping arm, turns his head slowly, and blows a jet of smoke from between pursed lips. He stubs the cigarette out and flicks it languidly away.

Through lidded eyes, he watches Noel watch him run his hand over the taut muscle of his arm.

Noel takes another breath, water rippling between them. Citrus and aloe, patchouli and musk.

Mick’s bottom lip pouts out, tongue moving in his mouth, pressing out. A drop of water ripples in the light, hanging from the tip of his finger, and when it drops onto the tile below, he moves, sliding through the water toward Noel like a sinewed jungle creature, deadly.

His touch is soft, though, the complete opposite of his movement, and it makes Noel shiver as he leans in to brush his hair away from his eyes. Mick kisses him slow, mouth open, sharing breath.

Mick’s hands play with the dampened strands of hair on his neck as he guides Noel through the kiss. They drop to his shoulderblades, warm and wet, and Mick’s turning him, pulling him back through the water to lie against his chest, the warmth of his body radiating up through Noel’s back, his hands moving in soapy circles around Noel’s chest. He sighs and leans into it, the ends of his hair floating around his shoulders, half being washed, half being massaged.

They stay in for ages, Mick touching every inch of him with his lips and hands and tongue, Noel tasting his sweat and his skin after he’s cleaned it. The water never goes cold and their skin stays warm and supple and smooth, pomegranate and jasmine and oud.

They rinse each other off, the last lingering traces of soap sliding down their legs as their tongues slip together, hands in each other’s hair, cocks pressed against the trail of hair on the other’s stomach.

 _His eyes are closed_.

Noel gasps into Mick’s mouth, and he feels soft cotton sliding around his waist, his damp soles touching carpet instead of tile.

Mick’s already in bed, skin soft and dried, pillow cupping his head, his hair lying perfectly around his face. He beckons Noel over, his wrist parting the curtains hanging around the mattress. The towel around Noel’s waist slips off of its own volition and he steps over it, leaving it damp on the carpet. When he takes the towel around his hair off of his head and runs his hand through, his hair is dry, falling soft around his face.

Mick’s hands slither ticklishly against his stomach as Noel climbs onto the bed. He means to straddle Mick but ends up halfway between his chest and his stomach, knees either side of Mick’s petite waist. His touch distracts Noel, makes him forget the direction he was headed as Mick grips one of his thighs and squeezes, holding him there.

Jagger turns, fishing on his bedside table, looking for something that’s littered among the debris there. He comes back with a slim pink tube. He tosses the cap, his eyes holding Noel’s, and Noel hears it clatter somewhere across the room.

Mick blinks up at him, tracing the outline of his bottom lip with the tip of the lipstick, pushing against the pillow of his lip until it skates over, leaving a line of color. He fills in the bottom, hand pulling away from his mouth. Noel watches rapt as he presses his lips together.

He feels rather than sees the tip of the warm lipstick slide across his stomach in a jagged line, slashed from his hip under the dip of his navel and trailing toward his cock. His gaze is half lidded, focused on what Mick’s doing with his mouth, until the next thing he sees is the fabric canopy swaying back and forth and the ceiling overhead. He hits the mattress with a soft puff of air and then Mick’s mouth is on him, tongue sliding over the line of lipstick on his stomach. His entire body tenses at the wet slide of Mick’s tongue on his skin; he shivers and grips at the sheets, raising his head to watch and dropping it back down at the sight of Mick’s teeth nipping at his flesh.

He crawls up Noel’s body, the wet tip of his cock brushing teasingly over Noel’s stomach and making him whimper. He wants to feel it, in his hand or his mouth or buried deep inside of him. He doesn’t care, he just needs something, some stimulation, the teasing leaving him aching and more desperate than he’s ever been in his life, never mind that he’s already come once, although he doesn’t know how long ago.

Mick latches onto his neck, sucking and biting and kissing in a flurry of sensation that has him grinding his cock up into Mick’s thigh. When Noel starts to pant and buck underneath him, he leaves a barely-there kiss on the opposite side of Noel’s neck, the one he’s yet to touch, and moves down his body before Noel can blink.

Mick’s tongue darts out, tasting him, teasing him, and it feels so good, that mouth near him, not even around him yet, he thinks he might come. He snakes a hand down to squeeze at himself, anchor himself, guide himself back down to wherever he is, whatever this is, and the next thing he knows, his hand is gripping the sheets, squeezing, and Mick is sucking him down.

The slide of his lips is incredible, nearly explosive in his brain. He’s thrusting his hips forward but he’s not moving; Mick’s taking him deeper but he’s lapping at his slit at the same time, his balls cupped in Mick’s palm and both of Mick’s hands sliding underneath him to squeeze his arse. He’s semi-aware of the wild noises in the room, animalistic and desperate, and he whines when he realizes it’s him making them. 

There’s sweat and lipstick smeared all over his body, all over his palms, frosted, glittery bits of mica in the tips of Mick’s hair catching the dreamy low light of the bedroom as he bobs his head rhythmically and sucks.

Noel comes with fistfuls of fabric, hearing the knotted sheets and draped material around the bed come loose with a wrenching torn sound that matches the hoarse, whimpery shouts coming from his throat. He’s coming, he’s falling, he’s deep down Mick’s throat, hands digging into his hips, gripping his thighs, he’s spiraling and drowning and fuck, if he can hold on just a little longer, just a little longer, he can suck Mick down until his body is writhing like he has the world’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll band behind him, his hoots and shouts and catcalls just for Noel, making him make those noises that he did on all the records, Noel lifting the needle and wearing the grooves on his guttural moans and squeals, lifting Mick’s body onto the island in the tiny kitchen, dropping to his knees, ready to worship, and not feeling the crack of the tile against bone in the padding of his dream, his hands swatting knives and mushrooms and eels and detritus out of the way, Mick’s brushing his fringe out of his eyes gently as he latches on and sucks him long and hard and raw and-

_His eyes are closed._

\- and he gasps himself awake. He’s sweating, his fringe stuck to his forehead, and the DVD menu is looping over and over, the sudden light from the telly blinding in his flat.

His cock is aching for attention in his pants, pressed painfully against his straining zipper. He pulls himself out, hands shaking with relief at the touch. It only takes a few lingering strokes and the image of Jagger moving sinuous, undulating, slithering, stalking across the stage, and he’s teasing an orgasm out that makes him throw his head back against the sofa cushions, legs spread wide as he comes all over his stomach, his Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly along the long line of his pink lipstick-stained throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Mick’s dialogue in the mirror room scene is straight out of Performance, as is the title of this fic. His sex laughs are inspired by his vocal performance in Memo From Turner, where he sings lines with little laughed upticks in his voice that I just love. Performance also references Turner "losing his demon." For the purposes of this fic, I made sure it was intact. ;)
> 
> Find all the links to the full articles that the above quotes come from @ my Tumblr, along with other ficspiration and picspiration and general "Noel loves Mick" goodies. 
> 
> Most importantly, all my love hearts to starsonthebrow and Terrantalen for pre-reading and saying nice things and just being generally The Best. Trash Triplets for life. <333333333


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